


Directions

by Lythlyra



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lythlyra/pseuds/Lythlyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are heading into an abyss of Darkspawn and secrets when it slips from his tongue, a passing, dry remark that is meant, as it typically is, to both dismiss or distract from the mage's whining. (Fenris/Anders slash)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Directions

**Author's Note:**

> This is in response to the [prompt](http://dragonageinaword.tumblr.com/post/15342263025/prompts-week-one) "run" at [In a Word](http://dragonageinaword.tumblr.com/).

They are heading into an abyss of Darkspawn and secrets when it slips from his tongue, a passing, dry remark that is meant, as it typically is, to both dismiss or distract from the mage's whining.

 _Ran away from the Circle. Ran away from the Wardens. It sounds like a habit_.

And he should know that it will never end at that, that the mage has far too great a love of hearing himself speak, but he doesn't account for _this_.

 _Running away from your family, straight to Danarius. Running away from Danarius, straight to Hawke. Maybe we're more alike than you think_.

The silence that follows, filled only by the scuffing of boots and the clank of armor, falls short of uncomfortable, wavering into something else that Fenris cannot and refuses to place.

It stays with him, an echo, as they trek through tunnels and darkness, into the heart of chaos and an ancient secret that wreaks of Tevinter and _magic_. Though Fenris is far from quiet, certain to speak when there is, indeed, something to be said, he doesn't shake the weight of what the mage imagines that he sees in him, spinning out much as the hours do.

He carries it through a weary victory over the creature contained within this underground labyrinth, through a wearier journey back to the reaches of Kirkwall, back to the shadows of an old mansion that feels more disquieting the longer he remains.

He carries it into the depths of Darktown, too, to the worn door of a begrudgingly familiar clinic; he carries it as he knocks, as he bristles where he stands, waiting.

The mage, as he comes into view, doesn't do as good a job of masking his surprise as he thinks. "Fenris. What in the blazes are you doing here?"

There is no answer, one that he likes or one that will suffice. He doesn't entirely know himself, his scowl only darkening as that pause, that beat, shapes the moment.

"I'm not running," Fenris offers, stepping forward and into the clinic.

But they both are -- always running, against time and circumstance -- but the direction is shifting, steered by a gauntlet that hooks into that insufferable coat, steered by the press of lips and bodies, steered by whatever the next morning, when the cover and ease of night fades, will bring.


End file.
